


One Year, Three Mornings

by kleinergruenerkaktus



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Blackmail, Comfort/Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-17 04:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11267733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleinergruenerkaktus/pseuds/kleinergruenerkaktus
Summary: "You're so calm about it," he says when he straightens, meeting Zhenya's eyes in the mirror. "I don't...I'd go crazy if it were me. I don't know if I could do it.""Only one year," Zhenya repeats, squeezing Sid against him. "One year, you be one-headed monster, then I'm come back."Bettman makes the Two-Headed Monster an offer they can't refuse.





	1. February 2017

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snickfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/gifts).



> Whew. This one completely and utterly ran away from me. Had I had the time to write everything I had in mind, this would've been +30k. As a result, this story's a bit odd, structurally. There are three chapters, each culminating in one morning-after that's pivotal in Sid and Geno's relationship. Given the emotionally fraught situation I saddled them with, I wanted to do just enough world-building to set things up properly, and otherwise focus mostly on Geno's Feels. My hope is that I can add sequals and missing scenes for this later, to fill in some of the gaps, but for now: I hope this pleases you, Snick! Writing this for you has been an honour and a blast :)

"I'll do it," says Sid. "I'm the captain, it should be me."

That's the dumbest argument Zhenya's ever heard. As he rounds his kitchen island, he shoots Sid a look: Sid, climbing onto a barstool, glowers back at him. He never pulls the captain card, unless it's a) for noble, self-sacrificing reasons, or b) in aid of winning something.

"What beer?" Zhenya asks as he opens the fridge.

"Whatever you have is fine," answers Sid in a tone that Zhenya translates as 'who cares, we have bigger fish to fry, just give me that one specific locally brewed IPA you somehow always have on hand'. He digs it out and slides it across the island's marble countertop, grabbing a heineken for himself. With one neat, sure movement, Sid angles the bottlecap against the edge of the counter and slams his palm down; the cap pings cheerfully as it hits the floor.

Army taught him that. Many a bottle was shattered before he perfected the trick. Zhenya watches the bob of his adam's apple as he sucks down beer, head tipped back, like it's the first thing he's had to drink all day.

"It should be me, though," he resumes, when he finally sets the bottle down. "I can handle it. Not that you couldn't, G," he adds hastily when Zhenya gives him another face, "I'm just saying, I'm in a better position to-"

"You can say, Sid," says Zhenya, leaning his back against the fridge and folding his arms. "Is better for you because Canadian."

"That's not the only reason."

"Is big reason! Sidney Crosby have baby, is like rol-rwoy-" he knows the word but his fucking mouth won't cooperate. "You know, Will, Kate? Trudeau come shake hand, very happy, Canada make new holiday. I have baby, Putin take my passport."

"See? I should do it." Another swig of beer; then, nonsensically, "And anyway, he wouldn't, you're too good." 

That one gets him the look-of-scorn hattrick. Sidney stares back, mulish and prep-schoolishy handsome in his dark blue merino sweater with the shirt collar neatly tucked in, the kind of thing he wears when he needs to be presentable but can avoid a suit. Like a conference call with Bettman, Mario, Brisson and a gaggle of guys from the NHLPA.

The horrible thing is: Sid is right. If they're a pair of scales, and the goal is to keep them as balanced as possible, it should be Sid. Aside from their respective countries' opinions on male gestation - ok, not _all_ Canadians would be thrilled, but they wouldn't lynch Sid, either, which is an important distinction - the one thing Sid has that Zhenya doesn't is an Olympic medal. It's fitting, then, that Sid give up Pyeongchang so that the rest of them can go. So that Zhenya can go.

He tips his head back against the fridge and closes his eyes. God, he wants that so much. After Sochi - there's not much that keeps him awake at night, but his fantasies of winning Olympic gold (or even silver, he's no longer picky) border on obsessive. They'd have a better roster this time, he knows it. It might be his last opportunity, too: there's no telling how long his knee will hold out (or his back, or his ankles), but he has doubts about whether he'll make it to forty. Every season there's a new and different injury, and they take longer to heal every time.

And of course, Sid knows all this. Which is why he's flinging himself in front of the bullet, like every captain in every war movie he's ever watched. It's kind, and selfless, and 100% Sidney. All Zhenya needs to say is _okay_ and _thanks_ and that'll be that.

"Tired?" he hears Sid ask. He opens his eyes. Sid's watching him, softer now, his hands folded around his beer bottle. "It's late. We don't have to decide right now, we can talk more after Carolina."

Zhenya says nothing, just watches back. He'd look beautiful, too, the asshole. Zhenya has no trouble imagining it: hormones rounding out his face again, the rosy glow of pregnancy making him look younger and sweeter. Zhenya would look like 200 potatoes in a trenchcoat. With an extra, giant potato stuck in front.

And yet that's how it's going to be, because even if no one had the balls to say it out loud just now, Zhenya's no fool. Sidney is the face of the NHL, riding the last years of his prime in a blaze of glory, centering what's shaping up to be the most offensively talented, creative, dangerous line in hockey right now. Bettman might want their progeny, but not at the expense of the trail of gold Sid leaves in his wake. Even Mario, much as he detests the situation, will always choose Sid over Zhenya, if he's forced to. And this time, he is forced to. They all are. At least he and Sid agree on that: they owe it to the rest of the league, and especially to the young guys getting their first shot at the Olympics, to do this.

"Geno?" 

And the final, most heartwrenching reason why Zhenya will be the one to undergo radical hormone treatment, carry Sid's baby, miss a whole season and in all likelihood be stripped of his Russian citizenship is that Zhenya _loves_ hockey, and hates not being able to play - but he remembers Sid's concussion year. He never wants to see him so desperately unhappy again.

His beer bottle, unopened, has grown lukewarm in his hand. Zhenya sets it down behind him and then looms forward, palms splayed out on the kitchen island.

"Oh no," says Sid, in a warning voice. "Fucking stop that, G."

" _I_ do," says Zhenya, ignoring him, mustering all his stubbornness and determination. "I'm decide, right now. You captain, team needs you, have to keep playing."

"The team needs you too!" Sid protests.

"You more important," Zhenya says with finality, he hopes. Then, switching tactics: "Please, Sid. Don't fight. Let me do."

"But Russia, G," counters Sid, matching his plaintive tone. It twists a knife in Zhenya's gut, but he knows how to answer that one.

"Russia want good team for Olympics. They miss me, but get Ovi, Tara, Dima, Kuzy, Bob, all good Russian. They forgive," he says with more confidence than he feels. "Sid. Be real. You know is have to be me. You do, maybe we go Olympics, but is still lockout later. Bettman want this way."

"Fuck," is all Sidney says, which is how Zhenya knows he's won. He smacks his empty bottle on the marble to punctuate his outburst: "Fucking _fuck_! This is so fucked up! I hate this!"

They've both expressed that sentiment a lot over the past two weeks, enough that Zhenya doesn't see the point in expressing it some more. "Yup," he says. There is a long moment's silence. 

"Another beer?" Sid eventually asks, with a heavy sigh.

"No," says Zhenya. He straightens himself and heads towards the den, gesturing for Sid to follow. "Vodka. Have to enjoy now when I can."

-

They get unseasonably hammered. Zhenya puts on the Ducks-'Nucks game, in the hope that they can live vicariously through some nice old-fashioned brawling, but the Ducks neatly and politely wipe the ice with their opponent and so there is nothing for it but to drink. Sid and Zhenya are siumped in opposite corners of the couch, knocking socked feet, and holding two different, only incidentally intersecting conversations.

"It should be me," Sid opines mournfully to his vodka and coke, which he made in a whiskey glass when Zhenya had his back turned. 

"Maybe," muses Zhenya, who is drinking straight from the bottle because it feels appropriately despondent, but at the same time is trying not to be a melancholy Russian cliche, "this is good. Make good role model for sad Russian gays."

"You never know," agrees Sidney, or maybe he's talking about the mysterious and unfathomable ways of Fate.

On the screen, there is a promising scuffle in the Canuck's crease - the Ducks just made it 5-1 and Burrows is nose-to-nose with Kesler looking ready to drop the gloves, but the ref intervenes and nothing happens. Disappointed, Zhenya sinks back into the cushions and takes another long swig.

Across from him, Sid looks guilt-stricken again. He's opening his mouth, but Zhenya cuts him off before he can start. 

"Shut up, Sid." Then, in Russian because fuck it: "You know, I think the worst thing about this will be the pity." The horror and disgust will be pretty brutal too, no doubt - how many friends is he about to lose? - but the pity will be neverending. At least you can hang up on someone insulting you.

"Izvini," says Sid, still with the kicked-puppy eyes. There, that's exactly what he's talking about. Is Zhenya staring down a full year of this shit?

"Is only one year," he tells Sid, gently kicking him in the shin. "Not so bad."

"We could hide it, maybe," Sid says slowly, cogs visibly turning through his haze of inebriation. "If you - if it works. Fake an injury?"

"Hip surgery," Zhenya supplies.

"Yeah, or abdominal tears. Or a separated shoulder."

"Hernia?" Zhenya says. "Concussion?"

Sid shoots him a dark look, but he can't very well complain about Zhenya leading them down this path when he was the one who started it. Perhaps, in his head, there is a line between injuries that are part and parcel of hockey, and injuries that are Cursed, a line running right around the spinal cord. 

"It needs to be something sudden, a season-ending injury that prevents you from going outside much..." Sid rolls his empty glass between his palms as he thinks. "At least for as long as our playoff run, and then we can hide you somewhere until the birth. Say...let's say you start - carrying in...October at the earliest -" he reaches one hand out towards the coffee table, before he remembers he's not at his own house with the whiteboard-rink-diagram table that inadvertently amuses guests with its jumbled reminders, to-do items, doodles, and actual hockey plays. He makes a small noise of frustration, before soldiering on:

"Treatment's at least three months, so starting in July..." because of course they're going to the Final, there's no question in Sid's mind, "...conception in October..." he counts on his fingers, miscounts, curses, starts over with exaggerated care: "...April, May, June. Perfect, that gives you three months to get back into shape. That's not much time - I guess you could skip training camp..."

"No Russia," Zhenya laments, latching onto the only thing he could distill from that rant. "Twice."

"You could go to Russia this summer..?"

A brief silence falls in which they both consider that idea and come to the same conclusion. Zhenya would need weekly doctor's appointments. No Russian doctor would do it.

"If you get a doctor in Helsinki..." Sid begins, but Zhenya shakes his head. A headache is starting to throb behind his eyes, warning him that he'll regret this in the morning. He keeps forgetting he's not twenty anymore. They need to go to bed.

"Sid, stop. Is nice you want fix, make everything easy. Good captain." He smiles, tiredly. "We figure out, okay? Later. First kick Jordy ass."

"Fuck yeah," says Sid, and agreeably drops the discussion in favor of gently weaving their way from den to kitchen (gatorade) to Zhenya's closet (spare PJs) to Zhenya's bathroom, shutting off lights in their wake. Too agreeable, in hindsight. Sid with a problem to solve is like a dog with a bone. He's humouring Zhenya. Already.

They're side by side at the sink, their faces unflatteringly pale and splotchy under the bright halogen spots, floating like ghosts in the dark. Sid's eyes are far away as he savages his mouth with a toothbrush, scrubbing furiously like he's trying to get mold off granite. Zhenya grabs his elbow, stilling him.

"Careful, gums don't like," he admonishes. Sid spits, and the foam is tinged with pink.

"You're so calm about it," he says when he straightens, meeting Zhenya's eyes in the mirror. "I don't...I'd go crazy if it were me. I don't know if I could do it."

"You could do, if have to." It's late, and Zhenya's drunk, but he manages to squeeze the correct words in the correct order, more or less. The conditional tense is the _worst_. "You do for me also. Do for team." He pulls Sid into his side, wrapping an arm around his neck, and sing-songs tunelessly: "Do for friends. Do for Canada. Do for McJesus. Do for..."

Sid's laughing into his bicep, his breath hot through the cotton of his shirt sleeve. "Okay G, point taken." 

"Only one year," Zhenya repeats, squeezing Sid against him. "One year, you be one-headed monster, then I'm come back."

"Two-headed monster," insists Sid, tipping his head back to look at him. "We're in this together, G. It's my - problem too. I'll do whatever I can, okay? We can get through this. Fucking Bettman's not winning this one."

"Win already," Zhenya can't resist pointing out.

"Yeah, but not, like... _winning_ -winning." All at once, he sags into Zhenya, like his body suddenly remembered it's hours past its bedtime. "Fuck, we have morning skate."

"Optional," says Zhenya, herding him into his bedroom. 

"Because we're hungover? We can't, coach'll kill us."

"Not kill. Strip letters, maybe." He burrows into his nest of pillows and blankets, yawning as he gets comfortable. Across from him, Sid briefly pauses his methodical search for the one pillow he can sleep on to give him a comical frown. "Is okay, we have long time. Someone else turn."

"Who?" asks Sid, finally settling and clicking off the bedside lamp.

"I think...Horny for A." He smiles wickedly into the dark. "Tanger for C."

He feels Sid shake with laughter. "Oh my god, he'd hate it so much."

"Game misconduct, every week."

"Disaster. No, I think...Shearsy for A, Olli for C."

Zhenya sniggers. "No way."

"Why not? I think Olli's captain material."

"He's baby!" In the next breath, they both abruptly stop laughing.

"'G?" Sid asks hesitantly, after a dark, silent minute. Zhenya, paralyzed beneath the duvet, forces himself to reply.

"Yes?"

"You deserve your own family. A real family. We both do, right?"

"Talk about this already, Sid." God, have they ever. They both genuinely lost their shit, the first time the 'suggestion' was made. Furniture was damaged and crockery was thrown. Hours of furious, cathartic shot drills were performed. It was all very dramatic and unpleasant. Zhenya has to hand it to Bettman: he can personally think of few things more cruel than forcing two bachelors, whose child-wish is so ardent that they both rattle around in mansions large enough to house an orphanage, to make a baby together and give it up for adoption. To a very lovely couple in the Greater Toronto Area, yes; with the finest skating and skill and strength coaches money can buy, to be sure; with yearly updates, even, photos and such. At age thirty, Zhenya's never been able to hold down an uninterrupted relationship for longer than a season, and he still can't cook anything fancier than eggs and pancakes. Sid's last serious girlfriend gave up halfway through the lockout, and it's been hockey and hook-ups ever since. During the season they're out of town half the time, and when they're home they work all hours. They're not ready to be parents. 

That doesn't mean this doesn't hurt, ferociously. Zhenya wants to stop talking about it.

"Yeah, I know, I know. I just...one year, okay? It's just one year. We'll get through this."

"Okay Sid," says Zhenya, feeling more tired than he's maybe ever been - but that's a lie. He's felt this tired after World Championship and Olympics losses, after their Finals loss in '08, after every playoffs exit. He got through all that just fine. He'll get through this.

"Okay."

-

The next morning, Zhenya wakes up twenty minutes before his alarm is due to go off, because he and Sid are both used to sleeping alone and sprawling out, and Sid just kneed him in the gut. 

"Sorry," he mumbles, accent much more pronounced when he's barely awake. His hair looks ridiculous and he has pillow creases on his face. Zhenya looks at him, rumpled, cotton-swathed and so, so dearly familiar, and finally musters up the courage to ask him something he's been thinking about since they agreed they would do this.

"After season," he begins, "before go home - Russia, Miami, Canada, whatever -"

"Hmhm?"

"Can we - I want we sleep together. I mean - sex. Like, it's hard explain. You know, we can't -" you can reawaken certain vestigial organs, but medicine has not advanced to the point where a man can directly impregnate another man, even if Bettman were willing to risk the child turning out to be a girl - "but I - we -" Zhenya gives up. "You know?"

Sid had looked surprised at the start of that sentence. By the trailing, uncertain end of it, he looks thoughtful. "Yeah, I know," he says, and blinks, eyes unfocusing. Zhenya waits.

He doesn't have to wait long. "Do you really want that, Geno?" Sid asks, quiet and serious. Zhenya nods.

"Is not injury, what we do," he tries to explain. "Is painful, but we make hurt less together, you know? If you want only. I just think -"

Sid reaches out one hand, and very, very lightly, draws the knuckle of his index finger down Zhenya's face.

"Yes," he says, with a small, early-morning smile. "Of course."


	2. June 2017

"For only the third time, the Conn Smythe trophy is being awarded to the same person two times in a row - Sidney Crosby, you are the playoffs MVP."

All Zhenya feels is a spike of almost vicious satisfaction. He is scared, sometimes, of his own capacity for jealousy - the dark side of competitiveness - but this time, there's no question it had to be Sid. Winning is half skill, preparation and strategy, and half delusional conviction that you'll make it work, that you can bend the universe to your will. For long stretches of this season, Zhenya didn't have it. He and Sid were playing well, but the sheer deluge of injuries meant that more often than not, whenever someone talked about repeating, a traiterous voice in his head whispered _yeah, right._ Sid didn't have any such voice. Maybe once, but not anymore. After the Niskanen hit, after those ugly difficult days when their postseason could have easily ended in a whimper and then they robbed the Sens in that gruelling OT win - Sid rose like the Kraken, like a true monster, indestructible and fatal. The Conn Smythe belongs to him.

There's this hilarious misconception that guys who've just won the Cup must be getting their dick wet as soon as the cameras are off. Nothing could be further from the truth. When you're falling-down drunk and feel, simultaneously, like you swallowed the sun and got run over by a combine harvester, sex realistically just isn't on the menu. Plus - sex would mean you'd have to consciously, deliberately walk away from the other guys, which after a Cup win feels impossible. This is the second one in a row, with mostly the same guys. If they could crawl inside each other's skins, they would.

Instead¬ they drink, and yell, and laugh and cry and drink and take pictures and laugh and yell and hug everyone in sight and cry and yell until all they can do is crawl into bed. It doesn't even occur to Zhenya to knock on Sid's door: the first night is special, for Sid to have the Cup all to himself. It speaks volumes about their careers together and how they've matured that a) that can now legitimately be called a tradition, and b) Zhenya doesn't feel the urge to give him shit about it.

The next morning, the bedside telephone rings him awake with a vengefully cheerful "this is your nine A.M. wake-up call, Mr Malkin!"

Zhenya gasps like a fish. His brain feels like a snare drum in the middle of a marching band practice, on a football field, in blistering heat, and every twangy syllable coming through the phone is a merciless whack on the drumskin. "Thanks," he croaks.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" Agony. This has to be a Preds fan. _Coffeebeer,_ thinks Zhenya with fervent desire, but manfully resists temptation. "No, thank you."

The lady hangs up, thank god. Zhenya rolls onto his back (every muscle, joint and ligament groaning in unison) and blearily blinks up at the ceiling, feeling an enormous, satisfied grin stretch his face wide open. Then he levers himself out of bed and wanders through the connecting door into Sid's room.

The shower's running; the bed is empty and slept in. Zhenya snickers when he sees the distinctly Cup-shaped indent in the duvet on the right side of the bed, but then he spots the flat of water on the table and makes a brief detour to get the worst of the dehydration taken care of.

"Morning," he greets the foggy shape of Sid behind the frosted shower doors. Sid shouts in surprise and drops something. The Cup is standing between the toilet and the sink: Zhenya gives it an affectionate pat before crossing off the second item on his list of problems to solve.

"Jesus _fuck_ ," grouses Sid, "you have your own bathroom, why'd'you gotta pee in mine? Fucking gave me a heart attack."

"Morning, Captain Hangover," Zhenya sing-songs, or would, if he could sing and had any kind of voice left to sing with. He sounds like a chainsmoker with laryngitis and a sunny disposition. He's a fucking Stanley Cup Champion. Judging from Sidney's insufferably smug, grinning face, when he pokes it out of the shower, he's thinking the same thing.

"Morning, G," he says, glorious and ordinary in his pink, water-slick skin and his beard dark and dripping. Zhenya lets himself look openly. Lets the morning wood in his boxers prickle with interest and the half-formed thoughts in his brain coalesce into a simple want.

"Move over," he instructs Sidney, and kicks off his underwear before stepping into the shower with him, which fits them both only because they're the best players on the best team in the National Hockey League and that means you get a room with a shower you can actually turn around in.

"Really?" asks Sid, though he gamely makes room. "You want to do this now? Here?"

"Yeah, why not?" It really bears saying again, it's the answer to every question: he's a Stanley Cup Champion. _Back-to-back_ Stanley Cup Champion. Zhenya is 30 years old, a full-grown man at the height of his powers who just spent the better part of two years making it undeniably clear that he's the best Russian to have ever played in the NHL. If he wants to fool around with his best friend in the shower with their third Stanley Cup standing three feet away, he will.

The water's heaven. It distracts him for a few moments: he closes his eyes and angles his face right underneath the spray, letting the tacky patina of beer and champagne rinse off. When he turns and looks at Sid, he's right there, leaning against the shower wall. Waiting, eyes dark.

They've both done this before. Obviously. Kissed people, fucked people, been in relationships with people. They've been teammates long enough to remember each other as awkward teenagers, with a desperate craving for sex but none of the time, privacy and social skills to get any. Then, over time, each in their own way, figuring it out. Zhenya's never been with a man: he knows Sid has.

They're new to each other, though, and both nursing hangovers, so things stay very slow, very easy. Zhenya runs his hands over firm, slippery skin, marveling at how good it feels, blindly seeks out Sid's mouth - and hisses when their noses collide.

"Sorry," laughs Sidney, low and intimate, before using his hands on Zhenya's jaw to guide their mouths together. It's - warm, and wet, and minty because Sid is the kind of guy who'll get thoroughly debauched but draws the line at going to bed without cleaning his teeth. His beard tickles. His body is so unbelievably thick that Zhenya can't stop touching it. Sid touches back, delicate, restrained passes of his palms over Zhenya's shoulders, back, ribs, ass. If he wanted to, Sid could pick him up, give him a fireman's lift and throw him onto the bed, and Zhenya didn't think he'd be into that, but he is. God.

Curious, his hands wonder down to feel Sid's cock. Sid keeps giving him calm, measured kisses, as if to say go on, it's okay, while moving back very slightly to give Zhenya room to explore. He's very hard, and silky to the touch: it feels...nice, Zhenya decides, if slightly weird, because he keeps expecting the sensation in his fingertips to provoke a corresponding sensation in his own dick, but instead he gets stutters in the sweep of Sidney's hands and tongue, little hitches in his breath that are fantastically hot. He sways involuntarily closer, arching into Zhenya's hands, which grow bolder and more confident as muscle memory takes over and Zhenya learns that cunt or cock, all skin between the legs is sensitive, and the owner will gasp just as sweetly if he rubs it just right.

"G," says Sid, sounding gratifyingly needy; then, after another minute of Zhenya kissing him quiet and lazily toying with his foreskin, "G, c'mon, we gotta - team breakfast -"

"Okay," says Zhenya, immediately letting go of him and making to step out of the shower, "you right, team more important, selfish -"

"Come back here," growls Sid, and pulls Zhenya to him with a strength that all his ex-girlfriends combined couldn't have managed. Yep. Definitely hot. Sid's all out of patience, suddenly: assured that Zhenya won't spook, he pushes him back against the shower wall, huffs in frustration when he realizes their height difference makes rubbing off against each other quite awkward, and sinks to his knees.

"Sid!" says Zhenya, delighted. He _loves_ blowjobs. He was not expecting to get one this morning. Sid grabs his hip with one hand and his own cock with the other, gives Zhenya a stern, heated look, says "don't fucking move," and bends his head down.

It's way too good, way too fast. Sidney doesn't try to take him deep, but he doesn't need to: his relentless suckling at the head, with fluttering tongue teasing the frenulum and lips slick with water and saliva, have Zhenya helplessly grabbing at his hair and the shower fixtures in under two minutes. Sid's hand on his hip is like concrete, not letting him thrust even a little bit; when Zhenya dares to look down, Sid's eyes are closed and his right arm is working furiously. He sucks harder.

"Sid, fuck," moans Zhenya, his toes curling against the tile. He was not prepared for this. He's going to slip and break his neck, but what a way to go. Sid vacuum-seals his lips and sucks his cheeks hollow, then somehow passes his tongue, quick and firm, over the head, three, four, five times and Zhenya chokes on a scream and comes.

He heaves breath after shuddering breath, trying to keep his feet under him. His softening cock is still in Sid's mouth: he can feel him swallowing, _holy shit_ , like the shower drain is literally right there, and he's swallowing? Zhenya moans again: Sid moans back, a couple muffled _uh, uh_ s, pushes his forehead into Zhenya's hipcrease, and shakes apart.

"Oh my god," he says after a while. Zhenya reaches over and shuts off the spray. His fingertips are wrinkled. The bathroom is suddenly disconcertingly quiet, and so thick with steam that it's hard to breathe.

"Well, I can't shave now," says Sid, and Zhenya laughs. "C'mon, I need coffee. Get the taste out of my mouth."

"Why not spit?" asks Zhenya, accepting a towel from him.

"'Cause it's hot," Sid shrugs, the _duh_ implied: but when he meets Zhenya's eyes they're bright with smug mischievousness, like he knows exactly how good he is at sucking cock, and is damn proud of it. He lets Zhenya crowd him against the sink, smiling, accepting his deep, aggressive kiss like the spoils of victory.


	3. February 2018

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for (subtle) mentions of (the possibility of) miscarriage, and discussion of blackmail.

"Congratulations," says Vyas, sounding like he means _condolences_. "You're officially on the IR." He hands Zhenya the test results, like - what is he supposed to do with it? Save it in a scrapbook, alongside photos of ultrasounds and his body growing progressively more grotesque?

Zhenya takes a deep breath, calling up the words he has rehearsed for this so that he will not be misunderstood.

"I'm not give you permission to tell Team Russia," he says, clear and deliberate. Vyas looks up from his notes and fixes him with a blank, focused stare, like he's centering Zhenya in his crosshairs. It's a look Zhenya knows well: the 'I'm a doctor and I have the final say' look, designed to shut down huge men pestering him to clear them for contact. Zhenya has been cowed many times by that look, but not today. 

"You don't want," Vyas says slowly, "me to inform the medical staff of your national team that you will be nine weeks pregnant by the time you land in Korea. That's what you _don't_ want me to do. Just to be clear."

Zhenya nods.

Vyas maintains his stare for a moment longer, then sighs and looks away. "Okay, Geno. You have the right to confidentiality, even in this. I won't tell them. But I need to know you understand the risk you're taking."

He looks at Zhenya expectantly. Oh. He should say something.

"Is risk," says Zhenya. "I know. I'm hockey player. Can I go now?"

-

Six days before the Olympic break, Zhenya's talking to Dana in the stick room at Southpointe when he hears Sid calling down the hall: "G? Geno? Where are you?"

"Oh boy," says Dana, eyes going wide. "I have to, uh, sharpen some laundry, bye," and he scoots off through one door just as Sid comes barrelling through another, eyes blazing.

" _There_ you are. Why," he demands, marching right up to Zhenya and jabbing a finger into his chest, "are you on Team Russia's roster?"

Well, he had to find out eventually. Zhenya shrugs: "Because I play for Russia in Pyeongchang."

"No you fucking won't," says Sid through gritted teeth, "because in case you fucking forgot, _you are fucking pregnant._ "

"Is early, can't even see! Serena Williams win Australian Open with eight weeks pregnant," argues Zhenya, busting out a fact he's been saving specifically for this moment. It doesn't seem to sway Sid in the slightest.

"Tennis is not a contact sport!" He's shouting now. Zhenya's neck prickles with the unseen presence of a dozen eavesdropping teammates. "Are you insane? Why would you do this? After all this effort, how can you risk -"

He cuts himself off, red in the face. Zhenya thought jinxing only worked with good things that you couldn't mention lest they didn't happen, but on second thought, he doesn't actually care.

"Is size of peanut," he says, pinching his fingers together for emphasis. "Hide behind abs, pants. Is safe. I put bubble wrap, okay? Make you happy?"

"No, that does _not_ make me happy. Don't patronize me. The IOC wouldn't let you play if they knew."

"They don't know, nobody have problem." Zhenya narrows his eyes, a cold finger of fear running down his back. "You tell them?"

Sid glares back, arms tightly folded, looking like he dearly wants to say yes. "No," he says. "I wouldn't go behind your back like that."

 _Unlike **someone** I thought I could trust_ , his tone clearly implies. It's true, but that actually pisses Zhenya off more.

"Not have to, if you respect my decision," he says hotly. "I know you don't like, you want treat me soft, soft, not play, drive slow, everything-" he's being kind of unfair, Sid's hovering hasn't been _that_ bad, but the time for reasonable debate is past. "Is my dream, Sid, is maybe last chance! Baby not last chance. I lose, is bad - so what? We try again."

He knows it's the wrong thing to say even as he's saying it, watching Sid's face drain of color. "Is that how you think about this?" he asks, quiet with shock. "Lose one, doesn't matter, just start over? Like a bad game? What am I, a stud?"

"What am I, a bitch?" Zhenya parrots, before turning on his heel and blindly stomping off, because he completely fucked that one up and he'd like to get a head start on his self-righteous fuming before someone catches up with him and makes him apologize. 

"I'm still going!" he yells when he's halfway down the corridor. He gets no reply.

-

They don't talk for the rest of the week. Sid's routine being hewn in stone makes it easy to avoid him; the other guys, not so much. Zhenya mulishly ignores Kuni's reproachful side-eye on the bike, Hainsey's earnest attempts at getting him to talk about it, and Guentz and Spronger's terrified silence like two kids in the middle of divorce proceedings. It's the shittiest, loneliest feeling, having everyone tiptoe around him like this, but he hasn't yet gotten a phone call informing him that he's off the national team and also a disgrace to the motherland, so at least he hasn't been ratted out. Zhenya cocoons himself in group chats with the other members of Team Russia, trying to let their enthusiasm infect him and drown out the oily anxiety he feels when he and Sid are in a room together and Sid won't even look at him.

He is alone, then, when, with perfect passive-aggressive timing, the peanut makes its presence felt for the first time. Two days before they're due to fly out, Zhenya does a light afternoon workout at home and is en route to the kitchen to get a protein shake when nausea sloshes through him like an accidental gulp of water in a public swimming pool. He braces over the toilet for an agonizing minute, breath coming fast and uneven, until, with sick relief, he gags, heaves, and vomits.

Fortunately the shower is right there. Zhenya's skin crawls with cold, sour sweat. He leans against the tiles with his eyes closed and lets the water batter his face until the awful dizziness subsides, and his stomach stops cramping.

It's just stress, he tells himself. Just stress over this stupid fight with Sid. Once he gets to Pyeongchang and can get on the ice with his team, he'll be able to focus on playing his best game, and he'll be fine. Then, feeling not a little ridiculous, he addresses the invisible havoc-wreaker behind his navel:

"You. Behave, alright? Hang on tight, so we can make the captain happy when this is all over. Don't let me down, okay?"

But evidently the peanut has more Sid in it than Zhenya, because from then on it harrasses him multiple times a day. Early mornings are bad, as advertised, but mealtimes are also a struggle and so are most smells. The kerosene-flavored air when he's boarding the plane has him swallowing back bile all the way to Los Angeles, because Sid's seated between him and the plane bathroom and Zhenya cannot, _cannot_ let him hear him lose his breakfast.

"You're being ridiculous," Olli informs him, in a rare display of chutzpah, before immediately scurrying over to where Rask, Barkov and Laine are flagging him down. Zhenya, trapped in the transfer queue, grits his teeth and thinks irate, uncharitable thoughts about Olli's home country, his fantasy football team, and his inability to grow facial hair (speaking of things that are ridiculous). He needs a Big Mac like, _yesterday,_ and knows with absolute certainty that he'd be hanging over a toilet before he could finish the damn thing. The outrageous unfairness of it all boils away in him until he finally gets to the front of the queue and sees the airport lady blanch beneath her make-up.

"Good luck," she offers timidly when she hands back his passport, not even daring to chirp him about America winning gold the way he's heard her do all the guys before him. Ugh. He dredges up a smile.

Then follows a three-hour layover in which Zhenya covertly googles morning sickness and goes on a foraging mission. People have been getting pregnant for literally forever. There has to be something he can do. 

"What the fuck," says Kuzya when they're halfway across the Pacific and Zhenya opens his fourth sleeve of saltines. The key to minimizing pregnancy nausea, he has learned, is carbs, and basically never allowing himself to feel hungry. The challenge of the latter is fortunately offset by the former, given that in his line of work he has seen people throw cooked pasta in a blender and drink it with a straw, but up here his options are limited. It'll be at least another hour before they serve dinner and he has to keep that down; the saltines are helping.

"I always get hungry when I travel," he says, as offhandedly as he can. "Want to play cards?"

"You're going to get crumbs all over them," gripes Kuzya, but he's already shuffling.

All in all it takes just under 25 hours to travel from Pittsburgh to Pyeongchang, and Sid manages to ignore Zhenya the entire time. Zhenya copes by aggressively enjoying the fuck out of Korea from the moment he sets foot on it. If he's going to potentially wreck his career and the most important relationship of his life for the sake of this experience, he might as well make the most of it. 

Pyeongchang makes it easy, with her perfect 1,5 feet of fresh snow and whispering electric minibuses and beautiful girls in dazzling hanboks. The beds are soft. The tap runs clear. Everything works flawlessly. The contrast with Sochi is so enormous that no one rubs it in their faces, which is nice, though personally Zhenya feels the lack of free-roaming animals is a flaw. Marching in the opening ceremony, swept along by music, colours and light so exhilarating that it feels like dancing, is almost enough to be worth it all by itself. 

As ever, international ice is a breath of fresh air, a homecoming: finally, room to maneuver and to pass. After weeks of forced IR when he felt completely healthy, Zhenya feels like a kid on Christmas morning, giddily, gleefully peppering Bob with garbage goals until he's getting slashed in the shins and heckled for developing bad habits. But even with the bigger ice, he can't relax. For all that he does believe a little contact won't hurt anything, he'd rather not test that theory, and he doesn't have eyes at the back of his head. The third time he narrowly dodges a check, Sasha's pale, beady eyes pin him against the boards, out of earshot from any coaches and trainers.

"What's going on? Is it your shoulder?"

That's the official party line on Zhenya's 'UBI' of the past three weeks, so he nods, making a bit of a face to sell it. Sasha's eyes narrow. Zhenya remembers, one second too late, that Sasha is really fucking smart.

"Really. Sure it's not a stomach bug? Food poisoning, maybe?"

Fucking Kuzya, that little rat. He'd caught Zhenya retching in the bathroom that morning. He hadn't even needed to make up an excuse: Kuzya, suspicious of all strange foods, had immediately concluded that it was food poisoning, and given an insufferable lecture about the dangers of buying from street stalls while Zhenya brushed his teeth and couldn't tell him to shut up. But Sasha knows it can't be food poisoning: he knows, because he'd been out with Zhenya all night. Everything they'd eaten came from the same kitchens. Zhenya can't even blame alcohol: of all the things he's been trying to keep on the DL, the teetotaling was doomed from the start.

Changing his story will damn him by default. "No, it's the shoulder," he insists weakly, but Sasha leans in and hisses: "You think I don't know why Bettman suddenly changed his mind about all this? You think I don't know what he wants? Malkin, what the fuck are you doing?"

Practice isn't over; there isn't time to talk, to grab Sasha's shoulders and shake the answers out of him. Zhenya skates back to the blueline feeling sick.

Once they've left the ice, Sasha graciously gives him two minutes to lose his skates and shoulderpads before herding him down a maze of corridors and into a janitor's closet, jamming the door handle with a mop. 

"How far along," he demands without preamble. "Don't lie to me."

"Fuck you, just because you're captain -"

"I'm asking as your _friend_ , Zhenya."

There really isn't space in here for two guys their size. Zhenya tries to lean away from him, resenting, suddenly, all the insufferably bossy men in his life - god, the smell of post-practice sweat. He takes a deep breath through his mouth.

"No, you tell me first. Did Bettman try to make you do it?"

"Not me." Figures. Russian Machine never takes maternity leave. Same as Sid, really. "You know he wants centers, only."

Zhenya actually doesn't know that. He doesn't know shit beyond his own personal circumstances. Sasha looks old and weary, the look that's built up layer by layer beneath his face with every time he has to take responsibility for a team that fell short of expectations. He catches Zhenya's incomprehension and sighs. Scrubs his face.

"Holy mother. Okay, you deserve to know. Have you heard anything about Mike Richards lately?"

"No," breathes Zhenya. "Him and Carter?"

"Blackmail," Sasha says in a low voice, as though he's concerned about eavesdroppers. "'Do this and we'll make the whole drugs thing go away', they said. His body couldn't handle it, so he backed out. Guess what happened."

He doesn't give Zhenya time to respond, bottled-up secrets pouring out in a rush:

"You remember in Sochi, Nicky couldn't play the gold medal game because his allergy medication showed on the bullshit doping test?" He does remember. Sasha had been beside himself. Not a week either of them like to talk about, if they can avoid it. "Bettman tried to recruit him right before the Olympic break. It was just bribery, then. Money, contracts, All-Star Game, American citizenship, whatever he wanted. Whose seed would he prefer, Sedin or Zetterberg? Neither, said Nicky, go fuck yourself. Okay, fair enough, said Bettman, and then he let Nicky get _this close_ ," Sasha pinches his fingers together, "to playing for gold, before he snatched it away from him."

All the oxygen in this tiny box of a room seems to have been used up. Zhenya can only stare at him in horror, and try to breathe.

"He was there again," says Sasha, evenly, eyes sliding off to the side, "after you beat us in 2016. Didn't even let Nicky go home first. He'd change the playoff format, if Nicky would cooperate. Not even as a carrier, just as a donor. He wouldn't have to miss a single game."

"Who?" croaks Zhenya.

"Not sure." Sasha twitches a shrug. "Nicky didn't want to know. He turned it down." 

A few pots of jizz in return for never having to face the Penguins in the second round again. The Caps were decimated after their 2017 playoff exit: it's not a complete rebuild, but they're a far cry from the President's Trophy winners they were then. Something clenches in Zhenya's chest, hard enough to hurt.

"Just the Olympics?" Sasha asks him now. Zhenya shakes his head.

"And the lockout." 

Sasha swears softly. "Fucking Crosby. Did he even give you a choice?"

"Neither of us had a choice, Sasha," Zhenya says sharply. "He wanted to be the carrier. I had to talk him out of it."

"You should have let him. He has the hips for it."

"Shut the fuck up."

They need to go. Their absence will have been noted by now. But when Zhenya moves to unblock the door, Sasha grabs his arm.

"How long, Zhenya?"

He owes him this, at least. "Nine weeks. Nine and a half."

Sasha's eyes widen in shock. "That's -! I thought - are you crazy?"

Zhenya shakes him off, jerks the mop out from under the door handle. He's done having this conversation. "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you, Alexander Mikhailovich. I mean it."

"You're going to keep playing? After what I just told you?"

"He can't stop me from doing this, and neither can you." 

"Zhenya, you stubborn fuck, think! If you get hit and you miscarry, he'll get his revenge. Forget the lockout, he'll make your life hell."

"I don't care," Zhenya lies, more terrified than he's ever been since had to hide in an airport bathroom in Finland. Coincidentally also a tiny windowless room, though at the time he was running towards Bettman, not away from him. At the time, he was the lesser of two evils. Americans did things differently, his agent had assured him. 

Zhenya's problems might not have been easier then, but they were easier to solve.

-

The Games proceed apace. Without ever discussing it with the coaching staff, Zhenya ends up getting short shifts against non-checking lines, centering his meddling pest of a captain more often than not. Sasha cranks himself up a notch, swinging all over the ice like a human wrecking ball; Zhenya just tries to dance as much as possible, taking advantage of the extra space to circle and spin and race down the middle, avoiding the boards. They win two out of three in the prelims: wiping the ice with Slovakia, pulling out an unexpectedly tough win against Germany, and losing against Finland in a rough, ugly game with 15 penalties in which Zhenya miraculously doesn't get hit once. He kisses his cross before each game and visualizes the little bug-eyed bean in his abdomen strapping itself in like a fighter pilot.

He misses most of the quarterfinals: five minutes into the second period against the Czechs, he gets a vicious slash to the knee and decides to be grateful for the excuse to sit out the rest. It helps that they're already up 3-0 by that point. They win the game 6-2.

His luck runs out in the semifinal.

It's against Sweden, they're tied 1-1 in the third, and Zhenya gets a split-second warning - a blue streak in his peripheral vision - before Hedman _demolishes_ him against the boards. His chest gets crushed; he leaves his skates, suspended, for a dizzying second, in mid-air; his frame rattles like a Lada driving full-speed over a pothole. 

Hedman skates off. Pain blooms everywhere at once. Zhenya gasps, fast and shallow. Leans forward. His immediate concern is his ribs - did he break one, or is it just a couple badly bruised intercostals? Through watering eyes, he locates the bench: the trainer's already flagging him down.

"Do you need to get that checked out?" he shouts when Zhenya hobbles off the ice, then scrambles to follow him as Zhenya makes a beeline down the tunnel. Yes, he needs to get that checked out, but more importantly he needs a minute to breathe through the deep, cold terror welling up beneath the hurt. He lies on the table and hides his face in the crook of his elbow as the trainer fusses over his torso. Relives the feeling of that hit, like a gong being struck, the impact rippling out with such force that it blurs at the edge.

Does the peanut have a brain yet? he wonders. Did he just give it its first concussion? Does it even matter anymore?

-

They win that game, too. Tara pots one on the powerplay and Bob shuts the door. They're in the gold medal game, which is the next day, so while the team goes out for a celebratory dinner that Zhenya can find no way to get out of, the night ends mercifully early. By the time he's gingerly arranging himself against the headboard of his bed, the painkillers are wearing off and his entire left side is throbbing, hot and mean.

"Uhh, so," says Kuzya shiftily, after he's fetched Zhenya a couple of icepacks and a tub of tiger balm with unusual solicitousness.

Zhenya flaps a hand at him. "Go, sneak into your wife's hotel room. I'll cover for you. Have fun, don't stay up too late."

"I won't forget this," Kuzya promises fervently, and leaves with a skip in his step. Good; let him think Zhenya is doing him a favor, rather than the other way around. Being finally alone is as much a physical relief as the ice on his ribs.

There's no TV, so he just dozes, letting the ice do its work and the faint noises of the building's occupants - rushing water, closing doors, footsteps and murmuring voices - thread in and out of his awareness. He is turned inwards: lying completely still, his mind quiet, listening for signs of catastrophe.

He startles at the sound of a knock, cracking the silence.

"Hey," says Sid, when he opens the door. He's wearing civilian clothes in his usual palette of black, gray and navy, and a Pyeongchang 2018 cap, the bill pulled low. Not a maple leaf in sight. 

"Hey," Zhenya replies helplessly, in shock. It's the first word they've said to one another in almost three weeks.

"Can I come in?"

He can, but as Zhenya closes the door behind him, his scabbed-over anger at being in the dog house wells with new blood. "Why you here? Big game tomorrow," he says, harsher than he means to. Sid doesn't look like he's on the cusp of his third Olympic medal. He looks weary, hollowed out.

"I saw the hit," he says. He takes his hat off and fiddles with it, eyes fixed on it like it's not exactly the same type of hat as the thousands of other hats he's been handed and told to wear in his life. After a moment, he tosses it on Kuzya's bed.

"Big hit," shrugs Zhenya, "not fun. I'm fine. So?"

"G, please." Sid is close, all of a sudden; fixes his eyes on Zhenya's with an intensity that, after three weeks of deprivation, Zhenya has lost his immunity for. " _Stop._ I said we're in this together, didn't I?"

"You mad at me," Zhenya reminds him, weakly trying to hold together the last scraps of his pride. This whole wretched affair is doing a number on his 'Evgeni Malkin, strong independent hockey player who don't need no man' routine.

"I am _so mad_ at you," Sid agrees, and he really is, Zhenya can see it: in the tightness around his eyes, the unhappy turn of his mouth. "But we're not talking about that now. Or about hockey. We're gonna watch Game of Thrones and get an early night."

 _And if you start bleeding in the middle of the night,_ Zhenya silently finishes the sentence, _at least I'll be there._

They do not watch Game of Thrones. Sid sits cross-legged on Zhenya's bed pecking at his laptop, going through his movies folder, and the bulge of his dick is really obvious in that position; and Zhenya remembers that he hasn't had sex in weeks, not so much as a handie; and the painkillers are doing their job and he just wants to feel close to Sid again, to smooth out that tenseness in his face, to touch him and to be held and to feel good. To not think.

"You're supposed to be icing," says Sid with a slight hitch in his voice, when Zhenya embraces him from behind and nuzzles at his ear.

"I do already, one hour." Sid shivers as he plants a line of damp, open-mouthed down his neck. Fuck, he smells good. Zhenya folds one arm across his chest, pulling him close; with his other hand he trails down Sid's body until he finds that bulge and cups it, squeezing. Sid jerks, but doesn't try to wriggle free. 

"Still mad at you," he warns, even as he tilts his hips up so that Zhenya can better worm his hand inside his track pants. It's been a few weeks for him, too, assuming he's been faithful. Zhenya bites him, none too gently.

"I know." God, he hopes they can keep this, once this is all over. Grim circumstances notwithstanding, this is a brilliant upgrade of their relationship. It's so easy to extrapolate what Sid is like in bed from the ten years Zhenya's known him out of it: how he likes in turns to be manhandled and to be in charge, how he hates teasing and likes it fast and overwhelming, how he gives and demands feedback because he has no patience for fumbling.

Zhenya knows now, for instance, that he has a minute at most to jack Sid, slow and tight, before he gets antsy and wrestles out of his hold because he needs to touch Zhenya back and also get their clothes off, because he doesn't want to get come on them. When that happens, Zhenya goes easy: he falls back on the mattress and lets Sid undress him, quick and proprietary. Sid's hands stall when they find the giant, shockingly vivid blue stain around his ribs. He sucks in a quick breath and hisses.

"Painkillers work already," Zhenya assures him.

"Not aspirin?" Sid asks sharply; then, "Fuck, sorry. We're not talking about it, I promise."

A whole host of feelings crowd in Zhenya's throat, but he can't even begin to imagine how he would express them in English. Instead he pulls Sid toward him, gently, to kiss.

"What you want?" he asks, after a little while.

"I want you to stay right here, like this," says Sid, and if it weren't for the strange, urgent undertone in his voice Zhenya would roll his eyes. "Let me do all the work. I'll blow you."

"Six nine," Zhenya barters. "I give you hands," because they've already discovered that a true 69 is practically impossible with their size difference.

"Yeah, okay," says Sid, nodding decisively like they've just conferred before a powerplay face-off. Zhenya pets his broad, round shoulders, knowing his face is doing something hopelessly fond. "D'you have stuff?"

Korea has graciously provided condoms, but drawn the line at lube, which now strikes Zhenya as offensively heteronormative. It's wild how having a baby with your best friend changes your perspective on things. In any case, he's got lotion, but he can't resist pointing at the tiger balm on the night stand and laughing at Sid's grimace, first.

"You're hilarious," Sid grumbles. "No, stay there, I'll get it. In your toiletry bag? In the bathroom?"

 _If it happens, it happens,_ Zhenya wants to call after his naked back. _Walking across the room won't change anything._ But he says nothing. It's not just for his sake that Sid doesn't want to talk about it. At some point they'll have to, and that moment will come soon enough. For now, talking is unnecessary. He palms a dry hand over his cock, slow and gentle, listening to Sid rummaging through his stuff.

Sid reappears in the bathroom doorway, holding a pump bottle; his eyes fall on where Zhenya is spilled across the lavender duvet. What must he look like? A haphazard collection of bones, joints, hair and skin, knobbly, bruised and scarred. Sid's last girlfriend was a vision, soft, blonde and glossy. None of this makes any sense.

"Like what you see?" he asks, lightly self-deprecating. "Pretty?"

Sid gives a smile - the rueful, lopsided one. "Not pretty. You wouldn't believe me if I said you were. But...I do. Like what I see. A lot."

Zhenya studies him in turn: his kinky, flattened hair from where he's carelessly stuffed it under helmets, hats and toques, his chain glinting at his throat, the hard line of his cock tucked to the right beneath his waistband. His pecs, his arms, his lips. The deceptive softness of him, and the incredible strength underneath. He's still wearing his watch.

Zhenya spreads his arms to beckon him.

-

He has no idea what time it is when he wakes up; it's still pitch-dark, and the only thing his bleary, sleep-confused mind understands is that his stomach is roiling and he needs to find the toilet, stat.

He hates that this is routine, now. Start the day by heaving up your guts. Pain claws at the bruise on his ribs with every convulsion; when he clicks on the lamp above the sink, wincing at the sudden light, he sees it's turned a blotchy, cartoon-poison green during the night.

But when he takes a deep breath and yanks his boxers down, there's no blood. So. There's that.

He brushes his teeth, takes two painkillers, and goes back to bed - it's just past six, and neither of them need to show up for breakfast before eight. But as he settles back into his warm hollow beneath the blankets, he finds Sidney blinking at him, eyes filmed with sleep.

"Is early, go back to sleep," Zhenya whispers. Sid makes a noise, a gravelly little hum.

"Did you just throw up?" he asks. Fuck, he heard. 

"Little bit. Is normal, don't worry."

It's bad etiquette to press a guy for details on an injury. Sid takes Zhenya's answer at face value, and doesn't ask more. Zhenya lets his eyes close; tired still, and content in their tenuous, temporary truce.

He forces them back open when he hears Sid whisper, "Geno?"

"Hmm?"

"I know I said we weren't going to talk about it..." begins Sid, and trails off. Zhenya waits, giving him time to think, but when the silence stretches into a minute he says, "Just say, Sid."

Sid doesn't. He just looks at Zhenya, eyes searching, like whatever he wants to say is encoded in Zhenya's face. Several times, he breathes in as though he might try to talk, but nothing comes.

"You know what," he eventually says after an age. "I want to beg you not to play tonight. When I saw you go down yesterday...I'm so -- scared, you know, for you, for _this_ -" his hand brushes Zhenya's abdomen, warm beneath the covers. "I've never been so scared. I don't know what to do with it, to be honest. I want to tell you to stop, to stay safe."

His hand comes up and finds Zhenya's; threads their fingers together, and squeezes.

"But I can't. I can't say that. Because when I think about it, I realize - it's the _gold medal game._ If it were me...G, I get it. I get it _so much._ "

Zhenya tries to blink away the burn in his eyes. "I know, Sid."

"You _have_ to play. I know that. So. It's your decision. And if...if it goes wrong, then we'll deal with that, together. Okay?"

Zhenya swallows. Nods. "Okay."

-

Neither of them can sleep after that. They try for morning sex, just handjobs under the covers, but that doesn't go so well - they're on the other side of the night's dark tunnel now, and both too preoccupied by thoughts of the game. Sid showers, and leaves with a quick, chaste kiss.

 _I'm fine, I feel good, I feel ready, I'm excited_ says Zhenya to what feels like a million people, including Sasha, the coaches, the trainers, and the sea of reporters at the press conference after skate. It's not a lie. He's played through much worse than Hedman's hit; nothing's broken and he's not dizzy, therefore he's good. And he's there, he's _right there,_ so close he can already taste it, so close he feels like he's going crazy from it: he could win Olympic gold tonight. This will be the last game he plays this season. They _have to win._

Forty minutes before puck drop he's in the bathroom stall furthest from the door. Head between his knees. Trying to slow his breath. _Baby_ , he thinks at the tiny living thing inside him, fighting its own battles - the first time he's thought of it as such. _Baby, we can do this, you and I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the 2014 Sochi Olympics, Nicklas Bäckström was indeed disqualified from playing in the gold medal game against Canada because his drug test came back positive for what turned out to be allergy medication. He was eventually awarded a medal.
> 
> A Lada is a rather cheap car brand that's especially popular in Eastern Europe, and also widely used as taxi cabs in developing countries.
> 
> Snick, you said _no sad endings, please_ , and I promise it's not! I know it feels a little ambiguous, but it's not :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Two Deals, Ten Years (the sulfur remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14232447) by [goldenmagikarp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenmagikarp/pseuds/goldenmagikarp)




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